


Comme des enfants

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Kid Fic, M/M, Magic, Midsummer, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England's fae friends complain that he has lost the spirit of his childhood. Coincidentally, France finds his own childhood the same night-- in a very real, very troubling way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrawberrySwirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrawberrySwirl/gifts).



> Based off a [prompt](http://axiul.tumblr.com/post/108473606974/fruk-prompt-kid-france-shenanigans) by [axiul](http://axiul.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Title from Coeur de Pirate's "Comme des enfants" which translates to "like children."

England hasn’t enjoyed Midsummer in a long, long time. He can still remember being young, and running over grassy hills and through thick forests with his friends, and feeling the thrum of magic that beat through the heart of his land. The villagers used to take him for a faerie, himself—they’d offer him sweets and flowers as tribute, and he’d take these tokens back to his friends with a childlike smile of triumph. Of course, for the fae, Midsummer was also about mischief. So England would sit back and laugh at the illusions his friends cast or the spells they’d weave, and in the morning it all seemed like good fun and no one was ever much harmed by it. 

(“Why are you smiling so wickedly, Angleterre?” France had asked on one such occasion, looking at him sternly. 

“None of your business.” England stuck out his tongue and shook his head, and if his friends pulled at France’s tunic and hair or got him lost in the forest, well, it was no more than the frog deserved.)

But those days are long past, now. He is an adult, a respectable nation who doesn’t have much time for engaging in magic and mischief. No, he gets to sit through meetings, and fill out paperwork, and field calls from irate bosses and officials. The world is a less magical place, these days, but it’s not as if England misses the way things were before—at least, not much.

“Are you sure you won’t come with us, Albion?” Puck always sounds teasing. He’s dressed in his Midsummer best, this evening, yet even so England doesn’t spare him a second glance.

“You realize it doesn’t work as it used to, Robin,” he mutters distractedly, pen against his lips as he looks over a pile of documents. “I’m not a child, and there’s hardly any forest or open countryside left.”

“You’re still ours, aren’t you?” Puck’s voice is all innocence, soft and entreating with a smile. “Her Majesty complains she hasn’t seen you in so long—is that any way to treat your friends?”

“Send her my apologies. But I really do have to get through this—”

Puck tuts, pressing small fae hands against England’s cheeks. “You’re growing old before your time, Albion.”

“Once you turn a thousand, you _are_ old.” 

“Ha! Tell that to Queen Titania. You’re still just a sapling to her, and me, too. Come on, just come out with us for the night, you’ll enjoy it.”

“Perhaps another time.” England’s barely paying attention, anymore. “I’ve got this briefing to go over, and then a meeting in Paris in the morning. It’s all very tiresome, Robin, it’s not as if I _want_ to do it…”

When England looks up, again, Puck is gone. He doesn’t think much of it, however, because he really does have too much work to get through tonight. He leans back in his chair and wonders when he did get so old, when being England stopped meaning the hills and rivers and started meaning the bureaucracy of Whitehall. There’s nothing to be done about it, he decides as he covers a yawn with the back of his hand. This is his duty, his role in this new kind of world… 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but England wakes to his phone vibrating against the old wood of his desk. Jolting up his in chair, he gropes in the dark for the phone, fingers lingering against the intricate Celtic knots and other carvings on his desk. Still half-caught in a dream, he thinks they glow slightly. In the next moment he’s found his phone, and forgets all about anything else.

It’s the French government on the other line.

“Yes, frog, what the hell do you want at,” he glances over at the clock, “four in the morning?”

“Ah, Monsieur Angleterre?” That isn’t France’s voice. “My apologies for disturbing you, but we have an emergency. And Monsieur France said that if anything like this happened, we should call you.”

“What.” England blinks at his phone, mouth half-open. “Why don’t you put him on the line so I can bloody well tell him how much I care about his _emergencies_ —” 

“That’s just it, we can’t,” the Frenchman says with stressed patience. “The emergency involves Monsieur France. So we need your help.”

“I’ll be there in two hours,” England grits out. He’s already shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing for his jacket, when he pauses to think. Things have been as stable as they can be, lately, and France never calls for favors. In fact, the other nation has actually been deliberately distant lately, as far as England can tell. He spends his time with Germany and Belgium, or Spain and Prussia, and doesn’t give England a second glance except to turn up his nose at England’s suits or his diplomatic suggestions. Their governments are closer than ever, but England and France haven’t been this far apart since Waterloo. 

And yet, when a call for help comes from France, England simply can’t ignore it. It’s a personal failing that he should really look into correcting, he grumbles to himself as he sits on the Eurostar and feels his own borders giving way to France’s. 

The streets of Paris are never wholly quiet, and are still littered with people as England makes his way from the train station to France’s apartment. There are the stragglers from the previous night, women holding onto their heels and half-drunk men humming to themselves, as well as the early risers, bakers opening their shops and joggers getting in their morning exercise.

France’s government had messaged him furiously with more information—no, come to his home, no, the details are a bit delicate and we can’t tell you more, no, no—and so England walks to the apartment that France has lived in since before the world wars. It looks out over Champs-Élysées, with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. England’s standing at France’s door before he realizes he’s forgotten his key.

(“Just in case of emergencies, you know,” France had said with an idle wave of his hand. “You’re closest, don’t get the wrong idea.”

“I don’t want this.” England had clasped his hand around the small brass key, anyway.

“And I suppose,” France continued as though England hadn’t spoken, “if you ever did want to just stop by, cher…”)

England never had stopped by, until now, and there had been no emergencies to prompt his presence. The last time he had been in France’s apartment had been six or seven months ago, after a world meeting in Paris. He’d gotten drunk, and woken up the next morning in France’s bed. Before he could panic, he’d walked out into the sitting room to find France curled up on the couch, hair falling over his forehead, mussed with sleep. He didn’t wait for the five-star breakfast that France doubtlessly would’ve provided him—England fled.

Now, he knocks on the door and waits. It swings open a moment later, revealing a young woman in a fashionable blazer and pencil skirt, looking slightly ruffled. 

“Monsieur Angleterre?” she asks, hopefully. 

“Er, yes.” He’s not used to being addressed by his name—even translated—by humans who aren’t his. “But you can call me Arthur.”

“Oh no, it’s no worry.” The woman has brightened considerably, and now moves aside to usher him into the apartment. “My name is Axelle, Monsieur France’s assistant. We received a warning about a break in last night, but it wasn’t that. And now we can’t get him to come out.”

“What?” This entire situation is making less and less sense as time goes on. “Start from the beginning. What break in? Who won’t come out, of where?”

“He’s scared,” Axelle says, looking up at England with imploring eyes. “He doesn’t recognize any of us, not even the president. We asked him if we should call Monsieur Allemagne, but he didn’t recognize the name. And then we said we could call you, and he said yes, and now he refuses to come out unless you’re here. Which you are, now, thank you.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” England snaps, “that that tosser got drunk, or something, and now he’s sulking until I arrive to mop him up?”

“Oh, no.” Axelle turns, a step away from France’s bedroom door. “You’ve misunderstood. And Monsieur France would never do something like that, get so _drunk_.”

“Wouldn’t he,” England mutters under his breath, wondering how France manages to charm every single one of his citizens while England gets henpecked by his own.

“He’s—he’s changed, Monsieur Angleterre. Something has happened to him, and now he’s small and doesn’t remember what’s going on. He’s a child.”

“A child,” England breathes, trying to process. He can’t remember France ever being anything but older than him. He adopted the title of “big brother” very early on in his history, eager to show everyone how worldly, mature and experienced he was. Even as England tries to imagine France as a youth, he still sees him from a lower vantage point—he was always looking _up_ at France, and chasing after the trailing ends of his silken tunics. 

Axelle nods, eyes clouded with worry. “I do not understand how things work, for you. I am very honored, and very pleased, to work for Monsieur France, but nothing like this has ever happened before. But he is very small, and very scared, and I think you would be most familiar to him, no? So, please, help us take care of him.”

“Alright, alright, there’s no need to look at me like that!” England’s blushing, and now he crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “Just, let me talk to him, alright?”

Axelle nods again and takes a step back. England wraps his knuckles against the door to France’s bedroom and calls out, sternly, “France, you great stupid frog! Open the damn door!”

There’s silence, for a moment, and then a muffled voice sounds from behind the door. “ _Who are you_?”

Oh, _hell_. England knows that voice, and the particulars of the language it’s speaking. For a brief, shocking moment, he’s thrown back in time to 1066. He sees France standing over him, smiling and reaching out with a hand. 

(“You’re hurt,” the young kingdom had said. “That won’t do, that won’t do. Come, we’ll go find William. It will be alright, mon petit. We will be great allies now, won’t we? I will take care of you.”)

England clears his throat, trying to remember how to form words in Old French. “It’s me, France. England. Something’s happened, but I promise it’s me. Will you open the door?”

“ _How do I know it is you_?” France’s voice is light and breathy, high-pitched and soft. “ _You do not sound like my Angleterre_.”

“I was never your anything, idiot,” England grumbles to himself. But then, he tries again, “Of course I don’t. I’m older—and you should be, too. I promise, I will explain everything if you just open the door.”

“ _I don’t know you_ ,” France declares, but England hears the uncertain hitch in his voice. “ _You could be lying to me. I am a great conquering kingdom, I will not be fooled_.”

“Of course you are. But I’m not lying. Honestly, would anyone else be standing out here arguing with you about this? If you don’t want me here, I’ll just go home.”

“ _No_!” France answers too quickly, clearly distressed. “ _Don’t go, please. Just… how can I be sure? Tell me something only Angleterre would know_.”

England rolls his eyes heavenward, regretting each and every decision that has led him to this point. But then he recalls another memory, and he sighs. “Do you remember that game we used to—er, still play, in the meadow outside your castle? And the promise we made there, once?” He can only hope that this France isn’t from before that point.

Again, there’s a pause from the other side of the door. Then: “ _Yes, I remember_.”

“And no one else knows about that, do they?”

“ _No_.”

“So will you open the door, France?” The other nation doesn’t answer for long moment. “France?”

“ _I don’t know how_ ,” France says, his voice sheepish. Then, defensively, “ _It’s not my fault! The locks don’t look like locks, they don’t work the right way! I don’t know how to open them_!”

“Oh, for the love of god.” But England can’t help the small smile that’s pulling at his lips. Opening locks is one of the simplest kinds of magic, and so it’s a matter of seconds while England passes a hand over the door handle and murmurs the right words. But as he does so, he realizes—it’s _Midsummer_ , one of the most magically potent times of the year. Could that have anything to do with what’s happened? 

He doesn’t have long to think on it, however. As soon as the lock clicks, the door flies open and reveals a very young France. He stands in the doorway for a moment, shivering, wearing one of his older self’s nightshirts. It falls past his knees and the sleeves drown his arms, making him look even younger, and vulnerable. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a fae child—his features delicate and beautiful, his eyes wide and deep blue, his golden hair falling around his face.

France has cultivated, over the years, an image of restrained ruggedness that tempers his beauty and more feminine grace. The stubble he keeps on his cheeks, the tight muscles of his lithe body, and the deepness of his voice all lend credence to this image. But this younger France has none of that. His face is clean, his cheeks rosy, his body thin and bony and shivering slightly. 

“France?” England asks softly, prompting him. And that’s all it takes. France lunges forward, wraps his arms around England’s waist and buries his face in the soft fabric of England’s sweater vest. England feels France’s grip tighten, even if he can’t make out the words that France is murmuring against his chest.

England kneels down, so that he will be level with France, and immediately the boy moves again. He grabs England’s face in both his hands, tracing England’s eyebrows with thin fingers.

“It _is_ you,” France breathes, and England tries not to look directly at his eyes, which are red-rimmed and puffy. “Oh, Angleterre!” And France is kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, whatever part of him he can reach. They are childish, innocent kisses, just a press of his pink lips against England’s skin. 

He’s still shaking, so England hugs him back, his arms fitting easily around France’s slight frame. He should have remembered this, England thinks. France has always lived and died by physical affection, but as a child he was even needier—he constantly wanted to be in contact with someone, physically reassured of their presence. 

Eventually France pulls back, though he leaves his arms looped around England’s neck. “Angleterre,” he whispers, “I don’t know where we are. What is going on?”

“I’m not sure yet, France. But I’ll be here, until we’ve figured it out. Alright?”

France nods against his neck. He looks to be about ten years old, maybe eleven. Too old to be picked up, but England hoists him into his arms anyway. Axelle chooses that minute to come forward, smiling at the sight even if her eyes still hold concern for her nation.

“What did you say to him?” she asks. “To get him to come out?”

“If I told you that,” England says, switching with difficulty back to modern English, “it won’t work the next time something like this happens.”

It’s one hurdle crossed, England thinks, adjusting his grip on France. But Midsummer is a time of powerful, and sometimes irreversible, magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using fast-and-loose estimates for ages/aging, here, but France is about eleven and from the twelfth century. So he's past the Norman Conquest of England, but before the beginning of the Hundred Years' War. For the sake of simplicity, his French interjections/translations are still in modern French, although as England mentions he's speaking an older version of the language.
> 
> All credit for the idea goes to the original prompt! I'm just filling in the plot and details. This should be pretty quick, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up soon. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Axelle proves herself to quite helpful, leaving the apartment to find France some suitable clothes while England tries his best to explain the situation. France’s wide blue eyes keep darting around the room as England speaks, taking in everything with wonder and speculation. England mumbles through what he knows, tells France that it is 2015, and he will do his best to fix things. Eventually he grows unnerved by France’s trusting, keen looks.

“What are you staring at?” England snaps, arms crossed over his chest. 

France is sitting on the couch, legs curled up under him, still in his ridiculously oversized nightshirt. To England’s surprise, he looks away with pink cheeks. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, France. Tell me.”

“It’s just…” France looks away, again, but then seems to find his courage. He glances back at England with a shy smile. “I did not think you would grow up so handsome! You were cute, as a child, but so small and you never stopped scowling! I thought you would have very many wrinkles by the time you were grown.”

England gapes, brow furrowing as he glares sternly. France has apparently gotten over his shyness, smiling at England expectantly. The entire situation is making England distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m still _younger_ that you, frog. If anyone’s getting wrinkles, it’s you.” 

France looks lost, for a moment, his eyes going from England’s face to the walls and then down to his hands, clenched in his lap. His smile falters. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says finally, head lifting haughtily. “I’m going to be young and beautiful forever… _sourcils_.” 

It’s odd, hearing the familiar insult from this younger France. But it’s also a familiar pattern, and somehow England finds himself laughing. He chuckles darkly, then lays a hand on France’s head and ruffles his silky hair. “I can’t take you seriously when you’re four feet tall,” he explains, and doesn’t stop laughing when France sputters and pulls away from him. 

England is saved from fighting with a child by the sound of the door opening. Axelle enters the room, laden with designer bags from Champs-Élysées. 

“How many clothes did you buy?” England demands, rising to his feet. 

Axelle shrugs. “Monsieur France likes options. I thought the little one would, too.”

France is still sitting, head cocking from one side to another as he tries to follow their conversation. But modern English is too much of a stretch for him, and so he eventually comes forward and pulls the bags away from Axelle, glancing inside. His eyes are comically large as he pulls out trousers and jeans and shirts, glancing at all of them uncertainly. 

“Tell her thank you,” France says to England, even as he picks up a maroon cardigan and wrinkles his nose. 

England relays the message, and Axelle lifts her brows as if to say, “See? I told you.”

Getting France dressed is an affair in and of itself, but eventually Axelle coaxes him into dark jeans and a checkered shirt, brushing the hair away from his face. France pulls at his cuffs and shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. 

“What _is_ this?” he asks England. “Why are the colors so terrible? Why are the breeches so tight? Why can’t it be something like that?” He points at his cotton nightshirt, folded and set aside.

“Stop complaining,” England mutters back. And then, to Axelle, “Maybe we should’ve gotten him a dress.”

She considers that for a moment. “We could. But I thought he should be somewhat formal, for the meeting.”

“What meeting?” England already has a feeling that this is something he should have remembered, that will make his day even worse.

“The world meeting, Monsieur Angleterre!” Axelle is already pulling up the itinerary on her slim tablet. “It is here, in Paris. You were going to give a presentation.”

England’s about to ask why Axelle knows that, but then he glances at the tablet and recognizes France’s writing on the digital schedule. That’s France’s itinerary, his personal notes to himself. And he’d circled England’s name on the program and noted it specifically. 

Before England can examine these facts too closely, France tugs at his hand. “What’s going on? Why do you look so worried, Angleterre?” 

“Because I’m always scowling, like you said,” England grumbles. But he doesn’t drop France’s hand as he turns back to Axelle. “The meeting starts at ten thirty, is that right? That gives a few hours. Why don’t you carry on there, and see if you can’t rearrange whatever France was supposed to run.”

Axelle nods. “And what should I tell the others? The other nations?”

“Nothing, yet. I can explain whatever I need to, and we don’t want word getting out that France is vulnerable. I doubt anyone would dare take advantage of that fact, but you never know…” England stifles a sigh, runs his free hand through his shaggy hair. “If nothing else, I can speak to Norway and Romania, maybe Belarus.”

She glances back at him, trying to decipher why those nations would be together. England waves her off.

“They might be able to help put him back to normal,” he explains.

“Stop speaking over my head!” France says, tugging again at England’s hand. “Tell me what is going on!” 

Old French is even worse than the modern language, England decides. And he’s in for a rather long day.

France can’t cook for himself, and England knows better than to enter the other nation’s kitchen unsupervised. So while Axelle sets off to run damage control, England and France hit the streets of Paris. France has always been unwarrantedly proud of his city, but now he gets the chance to discover everything anew. Though he keeps a tight hold of England’s hand, he flutters to and fro on the street, pointing out crepe stands and sidewalk painters. 

“Look how fast that man sketches portraits,” he says, looking to one artist in particular. “I’ve always wanted a portrait done, but Louis says it’s a waste because we won’t hang it in the church or with the royal portraits. Aliénor is much kinder about it, but she spends her money on brocades and won’t pay for a painter, either—”

“Eleanor,” England says weakly. “That would be… the Queen of France?”

“Yes.” France props his hands against his hips, looking at England as though he’s rather stupid. “She’s the Duchess of Aquitaine, as well. You know this, Angleterre.” 

“Of course,” England murmurs. At least now he can place France directly in time, though he’s better off not mentioning that Eleanor didn’t stay Queen of France for long. It had been one of their biggest, earliest fights, and England had always considered himself the victor. He thinks of dear Richard, and loses himself in memory for a moment before France starts tugging at his hand again.

“The portraits,” France insists, pointing again. “Are they very expensive? Does older me have very much money? Could we ask Mademoiselle Axelle?” 

England glances at the artist’s sign—eight Euro. He starts laughing, again, and France take offense. Pouting, he stamps a foot.

“I do not see what is so funny!” He’s shaking a bit with anger, and maybe hurt, too. “I do not understand this place, or anything at all, and you are not helping! There are no horses and the buildings are very strange and I do not like these new clothes and _why are you laughing_?”

England kneels down, pulls France close by the shoulders and wipes the tears off his cheeks. France always did know how to get what he wanted, with curled lips and pretty tears.

“It’s alright,” England tells him, “you’ll have your portrait.” 

It’s worth it, maybe, for the way France beams at him. England pays the artist, an older man with thinning hair and olive skin, and then stands aside as France sits on a wooden stool and looks out at the Seine as the man draws him. He uses pastels, capturing the soft curves of France’s face and the bright color of his eyes and hair. 

When it’s done, France gazes at the easel with an awed expression for long moments. He circles it, tilts his head and tries to see every angle. Then he turns and smiles at the man, kissing him on both cheeks.

“It is so wonderful,” France says, “I cannot thank you enough. No one has ever done something like this for me, before!”

The man glances to England with a quizzical expression; the elder nation just shrugs. “He likes art,” he explains.

“We must have one of you, too, Angleterre,” France insists, pushing England towards the stool. “I would like to have it, to look at when you are away.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Look, France, we don’t have time for—” 

But France just looks at him imploringly, and says, “Please?”

England hands over another eight Euro.

He doesn’t smile for his portrait, and so his expression is stern as he looks out at France’s favorite river. The colors the artist uses are darker, bolder—forest green for his eyes and deep brown for his eyebrows. When it’s done, France won’t stop looking at it. The scrutiny makes England’s skin itch. 

“Tell him,” France instructs, “that he is the most talented artist I have ever had, and that I will invite him to serve the court when I am the proper age, again.”

“Thanks,” England mutters at the man, then grabs France’s wrist and leads him away. France clutches his artwork to his chest, protected by thin sheets of plastic.

“We didn’t get his name,” France protests. “How will I invite him to court?”

“You don’t have a court,” England snaps. 

“What?” France pauses, looking at England uncertainly. “Who serves the king?”

Oh, fuck, England thinks. He does not have the time to get into France’s many revolutions and his five attempts at a republic. “No one,” he says quickly. “Government has changed, a lot. You have a president, now.”

“President,” France tries out the word, tongue flat against the bottom of his mouth. “But, Angleterre, how can we not have a court, or a king—”

“It’s been nine hundred years!” England turns around, exploding suddenly. “Things are different! You didn’t want kings anymore, don’t ask me to explain yourself to you. I thought the whole bloody thing was mad. Everything is different, please just accept that! I don’t have the time or the patience to explain nine centuries to you!”

France is shocked silent, small fingers still clutching his portraits. “Do you have a king?” he asks, after a moment.

“A queen,” England says tiredly. “And also a prime minister. He’s the one running Whitehall, mostly.”

“I see.” France is looking down at his feet. “Should we get breakfast?”

England swallows around the feeling of guilt and nods. They duck into the next café, and England orders what he thinks France will like—sweet crepes with strawberries and marmalade, milk instead of his usual coffee. England orders himself three cups of tea and indulges in toasted baguettes with jam. France eats slowly and steadily, savoring each bite and keeping his eyes down on his plate. England can see, in him, echoes of the man he will become. The way he tilts his knife and fork, the pensive look of his eyes, the way he purses his lips when he’s trying not to say everything he’s thinking. 

For a moment, brief but startling in its intensity, England wishes the older France were there.

“I’m sorry,” France says when he’s done, still looking down at his plate. 

“What?” 

“I never believed you, when you talked about fairies and magic. I thought you were trying to trick me.” France looks up, now, face pinched with concern. “But this whole world—everything here must be magic, is that right? The light comes without fire, and the carriages move without horses, and everything is big, and fast—and now this has happened to me… is everything magical, in the future?” 

England’s fae friends had tormented France mercilessly for calling England a liar—despite the poetry of his land and the spirit of his people, France himself has never taken to magic. England thinks it is because he is so grounded by the people of this realm, so engaged in physical and social contact. He doesn’t need another world, because he lives so fully in this one. 

But hearing him say sorry is a novel experience. 

“It’s alright, France,” England says softly. “It’s not your fault. The world isn’t any more magical that it was in 1130. It’s technology, it changes. The only magical thing around here is what’s happened to you.”

“Can you fix it?” France sounds so uncertain. England misses his teasing, his self-assurance. 

“I’m going to try,” he promises. 

They’re almost late, by the time they arrive at the grand meeting hall in the center of Paris. The Eiffel Tower catches France’s eye, but England tugs him along with a promise of “later.” They meet Axelle by the entrance, and hands England an itinerary and France’s cellphone. There are 183 missed messages.

“Jesus fuck,” England says, tapping through the texts. Six from Prussia, eight from Spain, twenty-three from a joint conversation with the two of them, four from Germany, two from Canada, three from America, five from Veneziano… 

France pinches his side. “Don’t use the lord’s name like that.”

England waves him off. “Then stop being so damn popular. I don’t have time to field all of this.” He’s still glancing at the phone’s screen, at a message from Prussia: _stop pining it’s seriously uncool_. Pining? Since when does France pine over anyone? Who is Prussia talking about?

 _You remember how to ask someone to dinner, no?_ That’s one from Spain. _He’ll be in your city, it will be fine! :)_

 _Please don’t ask me for advice on this_ , Germany’s message reads. _You know I appreciate your help with Veneziano, but I cannot offer you the same. And this is meant to be a work number_. 

France—the older France, _his_ France—has been pining over someone. And is now asking half of Europe for advice about said person. England’s hands go clammy, and he tucks the phone away and grabs France by the elbow, leading him down the hallway.

“We have these summits, these days,” he explains quickly. “With nearly two hundred nations. You won’t recognize most of them, that’s alright. Just stick close to me and don’t talk to anyone.”

“Would they understand me if I did?” France wonders, and England can’t tell if he’s being teased or not. 

He huffs. “We’ll see.” He turns a corner and ducks his head into the main conference room. “America! Canada—over here, if you please.”

It looks as though most people are here, already, and have taken their seats or are milling about, mingling. America is over by the snack table—of _course_ he is, and of course France organized for macarons and madeleines to be served—while Canada is… oh, there. Speaking to Ukraine. But they both look up at the sound of England’s voice, and they must see something in his expression because they head towards him without question.

“Where have you been,” America asks, swallowing the last of his madeleine. “I’ve been texting you for like, hours. And where the hell is France?”

“About that,” England mutters, grabbing America and Canada by the collars of their pressed shirts and pulling them out into the hall. “We have a bit of an issue.”

France is hiding behind England, one hand clutching the edge of his jacket. He’s looking up at America and Canada, and then between them, as if he can’t figure out what to make of them. England doesn’t blame him. Their former colonies are ridiculously tall, and this is the first time France has ever seen them, technically.

“France?” Canada asks softly. 

“Oh my god,” America yelps. “What did you _do_? Is this some kind of magic thing?”

“Why are you assuming this is my fault!” England retorts. “I’ve been taking care of him, this wasn’t my goddamn doing!”

“Are you sure?” America’s got that fierce glint in his eye, the one that speaks of intelligence no matter what his words are saying. “Did he—oh, god. Was this your reaction? Some kind of magic revenge?”

“Reaction to _what_?” England’s got a hand fisted in America’s shirt, now. “I’m telling you I had nothing to do with this! We’ve got to find a way to put this right, so you, Mr. Leader of the Free World, are going to find a way to stall this useless meeting!” 

“Um, guys?” That’s Canada, who’s kneeling down to be level with France. And France is… France is shaking, backing away from the ire building between America and England.

Immediately, England drops America’s shirt and steps back. “Sorry,” he says to France in words he can understand, “this is… this is our family, France. Or part of it. America, and Canada.”

“Ours?” France asks quizzically. 

“It’s a long story,” England mutters. “They were little boys, and we fought over who’d raise them…”

“So not together,” France murmurs. 

“Go on,” England snaps at his former colonies. “Introduce yourselves.”

Canada, who’d been squinting through France and England’s conversation, starts. “Hello,” he says in his peculiarly-accented French. “I’m Canada.”

France can understand the sentiment, it seems, if not the exact words. He nods, and repeats, “Canada.”

“Oh, god, my French is really rusty,” America groans. England’s about to say that France wouldn’t understand Cajun French, anyway, but America’s already making an attempt. “Wow, you are like, really tiny. How old are you—fifty? A hundred? I’m America, by the way. The coolest nation, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

France just nods along, a bit helpless. “Amérique.” 

“He’s still older than you are,” England tells America snidely. “Now, I need one of you to watch him, and the other to stall, while I find Norway and we get this whole thing straightened out—”

He’s cut off when France turns abruptly and gasps. True to form, certain nations are arriving late to the meeting. And France is gaping at one of them.

“Grand-père?” 

Romano, walking between his brother and Spain, stops in his tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may end up being slightly longer than I anticipated, if only because this chapter was supposed to be about the world meeting, but we didn't actually get there until the end. 
> 
> France mentions [Eleanor of Aquitaine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eleanor_of_Aquitaine), who was married to King Louis VII of France and then married King Henry II of England. She was the mother of King Richard the Lionheart. 
> 
> I'm sure it's more than obvious what older!France had been up to, but we'll just say that England is particularly oblivious. 
> 
> And lastly, thank you all so much for your comments on the first chapter! They were very kind, and very motivating. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of an interlude. I hadn't intended to switch POVs, initially, but it became necessary as this chapter was super difficult to write any other way. I hope it still works, and you guys enjoy it-- I've been wrestling with it for a few days and at this point I just want to get it out so I can start editing the last few parts, which are already mostly written!
> 
> A note on names: I have characters refer to each other by translations of country names. So France calls England "Angleterre" and Spain "Espagne." However, when they're referring to someone who isn't there/isn't being directly addressed, I've left the names in English for the sake of clarity. You can assume they're using the names translated into whichever language they're speaking. I hope that doesn't get too confusing!

Everything gets easier once France realizes he’s dreaming. The way his city has transformed into something magical and strange, the speed of the art production and the strange devices people keep referring to, England being an adult but so attentive to him… and now this. When he sees the man coming down the hall, France is convinced. 

He hasn’t seen his grandfather in some seven centuries, since Clovis had gathered him up one night and taken him back to his own lands. But he still remembers the cut of his jaw and the slope of his nose, his dark hair and amber eyes. And the man walking towards them now…

“Grand-père?” he asks, again. There’s something not quite right—this man is thinner, his hair straighter, his expression irritated rather than exuberant—but still. If this is a dream, shouldn’t France have the chance to say hello?

“France, no,” England’s saying from somewhere over his head. “France, that’s _Romano_. Rome’s dead, you know that.”

Of course he knows that—he remembers every moment of his own history. But dreams don’t have to make sense. Even if England has moved forward in time, maybe others have moved back. Maybe Rome is living once again, younger than France had ever seen him. 

“It can’t be Romano,” France whispers. “He’s so tiny. I think the Pope must sit on his head to keep him from growing.” 

Several things happen at once, after that. The three men are looking at France, their expressions all shifting as they do—anger, worry, outrage—and then the tallest of them is crossing the hallway in quick strides and grabbing England by the front of his shirt. The other two step forward, mirrored looks of confusion on their faces, and then the others from before—Canada, America—are coming forward as well, Canada stepping in front of France and America trying to come between England and the other.

He can’t understand anything that anyone is saying. He catches his name said in different ways—France, Francia—and hints of words that might be familiar. One of them is still fighting with England, who’s cheeks are turning red as he jabs a finger against the other’s chest, yelling. It’s only when that man turns slightly and France catches sight of his eyes that he realizes who he is.

“Espagne!” He darts around Canada and grabs hold of Spain’s shirt, tugging him backwards. “Espagne, don’t hurt him, if you hurt him I really will never speak to you again!”

Spain turns, releasing his grip on England. He glances down at France with concern clouding his sea-green eyes. His face furrows with concentration, and then he asks in Latin, “Did you just say you’d never speak to me again?”

France resists the urge to roll his eyes. Spain has never been any good at French, and now that he has been taken over by the calife he’ll probably never learn. At least he hasn’t forgotten his Latin.

“That’s right.” France crosses his arms over his chest. “It’ll make the last four hundred years seem like nothing.” Truthfully, France hates not being able to speak to Spain. He misses being able to run across the mountains and see him as often as he wants, but his kings have told him Al-Andalus is a threat and he must be wary. But this Spain—older and taller and _handsome_ , why is everyone so handsome?—looks enough like the boy France used to play with that he’s not so sure. Maybe when he gets home, he will tell Louis to be kinder to Spain. 

One of the others—is it really Romano?—says something to Spain in a language France doesn’t know. He makes an abortive gesture with his hands, indicating first England and then France. Spain nods and says something in return. 

“Wait, I can’t understand—” France has been told never to admit if he doesn’t know something. The ladies of the court are always telling him to just smile and play along, and then learn what he needs to later. This has been good advice, but usually he’s not quite so out of his depth. At least at court, everyone speaks Latin or French. 

But the others aren’t listening to him. England is speaking very quickly, and then America responds, and Canada says something so quietly that France doesn’t know if he could have heard the words, much less understood them. Spain and Romano butt in, and suddenly everyone’s volume gets very loud again.

France sighs—at least some things haven’t changed from when they were young. 

“Francia?” It’s the third of them—it must be Veneziano. He’s kneeling down so that he’s level with France, and smiling kindly. And he’s speaking Latin. “Are you alright? I would be very scared if suddenly I was small, again. But don’t worry. There are a lot of people who love you very much, and we’ll make sure that you’re big again. But, ah, we like you like this, too! You’re so cute, Francia, I’ve never been bigger than you before. Isn’t it funny?” 

He can’t help but smile at the words. Veneziano speaks very fast, but he’s kind and his words bolster France’s spirits. France reaches forward and kisses Veneziano’s cheek. Veneziano gives him a warm hug in return. 

The others seem to have finally finished their arguing. Canada and America step back, and Canada squeezes France’s shoulder comfortingly before the two of them turn back towards the main room—the _conference_ , England had said. 

Romano—it must be Romano, because Rome would’ve dominated that conversation in a way this man hadn’t—is walking towards the room, too, gesturing to his brother. Veneziano gives France another hug, says, “Don’t worry, tell me if you need me!” and then scampers after Romano. 

And that leaves France with England and Spain.

England clears his throat. “You can stay with this toss—with Spain, for now. Alright? I’ve got to go figure out a way to fix this, to talk to some people.”

“You’re leaving?” 

England looks down at his feet, shifting awkwardly. “No, I’ll be right outside. But just—look, you love Spain, don’t deny it. You’ll be fine with him for an hour or two.”

Ah, France thinks. That must be what Veneziano was talking about. Not—

“You’ll be back?” he asks.

“Of course.” England ruffles France’s hair, and France wrinkles his nose and shifts away. “I promise I’ll fix this, France.”

France remembers a day in the meadow, with crowns of flowers and bright sunshine. He nods. “You always keep your promises, Angleterre.”

A smile flickers across England’s stern features for just a moment. He says something to Spain, and then walks away down the hall. France swallows against the panic of watching his retreating form. But before he has time to call England back, or anything else, he’s struck by a feeling of displacement as someone grabs him around the waist and hoists him into the air.

“E-Espagne!” France is squirming, but Spain seems to have no trouble holding him aloft. He smiles, warm and easy, all the ire he’d directed at England completely gone.

“Come, Francia, we’ll find something to do while the others are away.” He doesn’t wait for a response, carrying France in his arms as he heads down the hallway to another door. He pushes it open with his hip, letting it fall shut behind them as he sets France down again.

France shakes himself out like a wet cat, hands brushing through his hair and straightening his shirt. He checks over his portraits, which are thankfully unbent. He’s aware that he sounds very much like a child when he mumbles, “Don’t do that without warning me.”

Spain nods agreeably, pulling over a chair and sitting down. France takes that moment to look around the room—it’s small, with a large table at its center and big windows. It’s mostly empty, save for a few strange objects on another low table.

“Come sit,” Spain calls out. And then, after a moment’s thought, “Is this alright?”

At first France isn’t sure what he means, but then he realizes Spain’s referring to his language. France has no trouble with Latin, so he shrugs, nose in the air to show Spain that he’s not entirely back in his good graces, yet. Still, he climbs up onto another chair and crosses his legs neatly, still scanning the room as though seeing more of it will help him make sense of this place.

“It really is strange, you know. I was worried England might have done it on purpose.” Spain has his elbow balanced against his knee, his chin resting against his hand. “And after all your planning, that would’ve been just horrible! But I suppose we’ll have to believe him for now, no? You are alright, right Francia?”

“Why would he do that?” France chews on the inside of his cheek, perturbed. “He’s my vassal. And he was skittish and rude before but he’s been very nice, today, and he let me have his portrait done and Mademoiselle Axelle called for him, so he couldn’t be the one who did it. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I hope you’re right,” Spain says. “I worry about you, sometimes. When it comes to him.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” France demands. It isn’t fair that Spain is so mature, his voice deep and calm, while France’s keeps pitching higher and higher. 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s too much to explain.”

That seems like a very bad excuse, but France doesn’t call Spain on it. Tired and pensive and a little bit sad, he stares down at his hands. Then a warm hand settles on his head.

“Hey,” Spain says, patting his head, “I’ll show you something that’ll cheer you up!”

He holds up another one of those devices, like the one England had scowled at earlier. France looks on in confusion as Spain presses against the small object over and over, finally turning it around and showing it to France with a triumphant smile.

It’s a very tiny portrait, attached to the object—part of the object? France recognizes Spain in the middle, his eyes shut as he beams and displays all his teeth. He has his arms around two other men—one is very pale, with silvery hair and reddish eyes, a mischievous quality to his grin. And then, on the other side… a man with twinkling blue eyes and a knowing smirk, soft blonde hair framing his face.

France startles. “That’s… me?”

“Mm, yes it is!” Spain’s smiling in the same way as his portrait. “That’s you, when you’re older, and me, and Prussia. So even if you’re not speaking to me right now, things will be better in the future. See, we are best friends.”

It’s a comforting thought, France thinks. Still, he doesn’t quite recognize the man in the portrait. Even though he’s smiling, there’s a deepness to his eyes that speaks to a kind of sadness that France has only ever felt in short bursts. 

“Who’s Prussia?” France says, trying to distract himself. He likes the look of the silver-haired man, even if he’s never seen him before.

Spain laughs. “It’s a long story. But don’t worry, you’ll like him, when you meet him.” And then, after a moment: “Want to see more?” France, beholden to curiosity, nods.

“Here’s one of the last EU meeting—ah, there’s you and Belgium and Germany!” The portrait on the device has shifted, showing something else entirely. Magic, France decides, as he examines this one. He finds himself immediately at the center of the image, kissing Belgium’s hand. His other arm is wrapped around the waist of a young man—Germany, Axelle had mentioned that name, too—pulling him close. 

Spain has many magical portraits, and they spend time going through all of them. There are many of Romano, and Veneziano with Germany, and Prussia again with someone who doesn’t look much like Austria even though Spain assures France that that’s who it is. There are also a bunch of younger nations who Spain introduces in a rush of names—Mexico, Venezuela, Columbia, Cuba—even though France has no idea what to make of them. 

“Let’s try your phone, too!” Spain says after a little while. “England gave it to me… let’s see. One-nine-zero-four… ah! Got it!” 

France watches this display with raised brows, because he really has no idea what Spain is doing. But France is determined to regain his footing, his smug experience as the older brother, so he just leans back in his chair and holds out a hand for the “phone.”

It works in the same way Spain’s had, except that now there are many more pictures of France himself. There is a girl with plaited hair who shows up many times (“Monaco,” Spain supplies), Belgium again, Germany, Canada and America, another girl with dark hair (“Seychelles!”) and many others. But there are two overwhelming patterns in this series of images.

The first is that France has a lot of portraits of himself. They are close up—catching his eyes, the curve of his jaw, his hand waved in front of the device. He focuses on his clothes, or his hair, and he always wears that smug smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The second is that he has many, many portraits of England. And some aren’t unlike the one he had drawn along the Seine—England looking away, his face shadowed or in profile. But there is also England turned towards someone and yelling, his hands in the air. Or England asleep against a wall, sandwiched between America and Canada. 

There are no pictures of France and England together. 

France has always been good at reading people, and he finds that skill translates to these small, magical images. He can almost see the lines of connection between the different people, the tenor and tone of their relationships. Who is family, who is friend, who is love. 

The truth of something settles heavily on his chest, and he drops the phone to the ground.

“Francia?” Spain is standing up, reaching over to him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m hungry!” France announces, looking up at Spain with a smile. “We didn’t have very much breakfast, can you find us something more?”

Spain looks at him keenly for a moment, then chuckles. “Of course. Stay here, alright? I’ll be right back.”

France smiles and waves as Spain leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. When he’s gone, France reaches down to retrieve the phone. One last portrait stares at him accusingly—there are five people in it, the only one where France and England stand in the same image. But they are on opposite sides, and between them is America, and two others. Ignoring the others, France and England are facing each other. England’s raising his hands in what France assumes is an obscene gesture; France is rolling his eyes skyward and scoffing. 

In the days after the Norman Conquest, when England had first come to spend large amounts of time in his home, France had shown England his private spot. An open meadow, bordered only by trees, where only France and England would be with no one to disturb them. France made great efforts to teach England French, and England would squirm and complain and trip on his clothes, ripping and dirtying them. But sometimes he would get tired and wanted to nap in the sun, and then he’d lay his shaggy head in France’s lap and be quite content to let France pat him gently on the back until he fell asleep. Or he’d tell France about how he was going to grow up to be a knight, and France would be his— 

France tucks the phone into the folds of his new shirt, then retrieves his portraits from the table. It’s easy enough, after that, to leave the room and then the building entirely.

\--

“What do you mean you fucking _lost_ him?” For the second time today, England feels like ripping Spain’s goddamn head off. “You had one job—literally! How hard is it to watch a child?”

“He said he was hungry—I just went to find some sandwiches! When I came back, he was gone.” Spain doesn’t really let England push him around, but at the moment he seems distracted by his own worry. That’s something, at least, England supposes.

“You shouldn’t have left him alone in the first place!” England pushes Spain away, and turns to pace the length of the small room. “What did you say to him? He could be anywhere by now—he doesn’t even speak the language!” 

Of course, they’re still in France, which is something of a blessing. This is France’s land, even if he’s out of sync with it chronologically. But England has just spent the better part of two hours conferring with his magical peers, and one thing is very clear.

“I need to get him to the fae by tonight,” England hisses. “Get out of my way—I’m going to find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief historical notes, here--
> 
> France mentions [Clovis I](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clovis_I), the first king of "what would become France." 
> 
> The reason France isn't speaking to Spain in the twelfth century is because Spain is part of Islamic Iberia, or Al-Andalus. While in reality there was a bit of back-and-forth between the two, culturally, I imagine the nations themselves probably weren't in much contact at the time. Muslim rule of Spain lasted from 711 to 1492.
> 
> I'm using the foundation date of 1215 for Monaco, which is why France doesn't know who she is yet. And the Teutonic Knights came into existence around 1190, hence why France doesn't know Prussia.
> 
> And yes, France's phone passcode is a date. I don't really need to say what 1904 signifies, right?
> 
> Thanks again for all the kind comments! I really enjoy the feedback, so thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

Summer days in Paris come with sweltering heat and crowds. England rushes around the city for hours, elbowing his way past disgruntled tourists and haughty French citizens, eyes trained on the crowd for a small head of blond hair. But it’s a nearly impossible task, because the France he is looking for is not the man he knows. This France doesn’t know that he will always go to Notre-Dame when he is sad, to sit on a pew and pray. Or that he has a special spot in the Louvre, off to the side of Mona Lisa’s room, from where he can watch not just the painting but also the people enjoying her. Or that he laughs the most when he’s hanging around Montmartre, a glass of wine in hand as he flirts with the artists and rests in the shadow of Sacré-Coeur. Or that the Eiffel Tower is not his favorite spot in Paris—rather, it’s a bench across the way, the perfect place to take pictures of his great monument. 

This city is no longer anything like the one that France knows, and because of that England has no idea where he may have gone. But that doesn’t stop him from looking, even as he sweats through his shirt and waistcoat and tries not to focus on the fact that he knows all of these things about his France. He tries not to focus on his panicking heart, beating in his chest, wondering if he’ll lose that France forever.

It has been hours by the time he accepts defeat and returns to the meeting hall, out of breath and disheartened. Somehow, America and Canada have managed to keep things running smoothly, and England hopes that no one else has realized what’s going on. The main room is empty when he steps inside; it’s four o’clock, and the others must have gone for one of France’s scheduled breaks. England sighs heavily and pulls out a chair, covering his face in his hands. 

“Monsieur Angleterre?” Axelle is peaking her head in the door, looking at him with concern. “Is everything alright? Where is Monsieur France?”

England swallows. How is he supposed to tell this woman that he’s lost her country? Norway’s warning still rings in his ears, telling him that Midsummer spells can only be undone within the first day that they’ve been cast. And all of that won’t matter, anyway, if they never find France.

“Monsieur?” Axelle asks again. She steps into the room, and England sees what she’s holding—a large bouquet of red and white roses, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbon.

“What’s that?” The flowers distract him for a moment, as he tries to figure out how to explain the situation to her.

“Ah…” Axelle looks away, a little embarrassed. “You see, Monsieur France had ordered them some time ago, and insisted that they be here on time. He could not have known that he would be, ah, _unwell_. I really am sure he meant to give them to you himself!” 

Before England can react, Axelle has thrust the bouquet towards him. Sure enough, nestled amongst the blooms is a small white envelope. He recognizes the—stupid, overly fancy, way too many loop-de-loops—handwriting immediately.

 _Angleterre_.

Wordlessly, England rips open the envelope and pulls out the small card. Again, that familiar handwriting stares back at him accusingly.

_It is funny, don’t you think, that we spend so much time and energy on these meetings? Before you would just come yell at the castle walls when you had a new diplomatic suggestion. I wonder, sometimes, if I miss those days. But you probably do not, and I suppose I cannot blame you._

_But you have been working much too hard, lately. You used to love this time of year, and now you spend it locked away, working on tax proposals and revised treaties. I do admire you for that, you know. But I don’t always want you to work so hard. You are in my city tonight, already. So you must allow me to take you to dinner, and help you have some fun._

_Don’t carry the entire world on your shoulders, mon cher chevalier. It would make me very sad to never see you smile. And if you cannot manage it yourself, I suppose I will have to crown you with flowers and pull you away from your responsibilities until you’ve relaxed again._

_Will you let me?_

_Cordialement à vous,_

_France_.

England stares down at the card for long minutes after he’s finished reading. He tries to reconcile these sentiments with his relationship with France—the insults and the teasing. It crosses his mind that France might have been teasing him on purpose, trying to goad him into laughing. But lately France has done very little of that, and England cannot actually remember the last time they had a conversation beyond, “the PM sends his regards,” followed by, “Yes, and the president as well.” 

But all of that can wait, England realizes, because he knows where to find France, now.

“Monsieur Angleterre?” Axelle asks, alarmed as he jolts to his feet and runs for the door. 

He turns his head back for just an instant. “Thank you, Axelle. Please put the flowers in some water!”

He pauses only to send off quick texts to America, Canada, and Spain—the last a bit reluctantly, but he supposes the other nation at least deserves to know that his friend is and will be safe. Then England hails a cab and flashes his credit card, encouraging the driver to step on it. 

It is past five o’clock by the time England arrives at the Château de Fontainebleau. There are still crowds of tourists waiting in line to see the site of Napoleon’s residence—they never do know the others’ names, and England envies them that. But England isn’t interested in getting inside the palace. No, it’s been remade enough over the years that it will not be anything France recognizes. Instead, England heads around the back, to the gardens.

The grounds are perfectly manicured, these days, with cobbled pathways and evenly-spaced trees. France’s wild-growing meadow is long gone, and yet England still spots a familiar figure leaning against one of the trees, gazing out at the lake.

“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been about you?” England grinds out between his teeth, coming to a stop right in front of France.

The other nation doesn’t even look up. “Go away. I don’t want you here.”

That’s a lie, England thinks. You’ve never turned me away from here. But he plays along. “Why’s that, France?”

“Because I hate you!” France has his hands clenched in his lap, and refuses to meet England’s eyes. “I hate you, and you lied to me, and you don’t get to be here anymore! Go away, this is my land, I will throw you in the lake if you don’t go, I swear I will—”

He’s cut off as England kneels down and wraps his arms around France, pulling him close to his chest. England chuckles as he says, “Give it a few years. Your threats will become much more finessed.” 

“Shut up!” France pushes against England, trying to get out of his grip. “I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want you to talk about how I will be! Get—off—of—me!” 

He punctuates those last words with kicks, landing one straight at England’s knee. That shocks England into letting go, and France scrambles to his feet and backs away. England remains where he is.

“Why do you hate me, France?”

At first it seems as though France won’t answer. His face is flushed, blond hair disheveled, chest rising and falling slowly with shallows breaths. He turns his head away.

“Because you hate me.” To England’s horror, France is crying. “You hate me, don’t you? That’s why Spain was so worried, and everyone was so surprised when they saw us, and then I saw the portraits! And I thought—I thought—”

France, for all his love of feeling, hates to let anyone see him in such a state. England can only remember a handful of times when he’d seen France truly, genuinely crying—ugly and red-faced and unglamorous. There had been the night after Waterloo, and in the emotional aftermath of World War II. He’d cried the day they decapitated Marie Antoinette, even as he laughed. But in hundreds of years, those occasions have been very rare.

“You thought what, France?” England asks softly.

France looks up at him, eyes narrowed to slits. It’s a look that England has come to know well, over the years, but as far as he remembers France had never looked at him like that until after Jeanne’s death. 

“You promised me,” France hisses, “that you would be my friend. That we would be together, and be allies. That—that it was alright, that I l-loved you. And you asked me if I remember, and of course I do, but you made me think you’d kept your promise. And you haven’t.”

France sinks to the ground, wraps his arms around his knees and curls in on himself. He looks so impossibly small, and the image shakes England to his core. France is—France is _strong_. Even when he’s weak and broken down, he perseveres. Even in surrender, he is dignified and defiant. But now he’s…

England crosses the space between them and picks France up in his arms. France tries half-heartedly to push away from him, but England holds on tightly.

“I can’t explain the past nine hundred years to you, France,” he begins. “It’s complicated. You are going to do things to me, and I am going to do things to you, and we will hate each other. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“Stop it,” France says, shutting his eyes. “Stop it, don’t tell me—”

“But I do remember,” England continues. “It was right here, wasn’t it? The castle looked very different back then. But I didn’t like my kings, very much, so I’d come and spend time with you instead. And one day I told you about how William had given me a sword, because he was going to teach me to be a knight.”

France has gone silent, still breathing shallowly with the last of his tears.

“And you looked so beautiful that day, didn’t you France? You were so proud of your fancy clothes and I told you that you looked like a girl, and you just laughed and took it as a compliment. I hated it when you did that, you know. It was like I could never get under your skin the way you got under mine.”

The smaller nation makes an abortive noise, something between a hiccup and a laugh.

“And I said to you—every knight needs a princess. And you were very happy to sit on the hillside and watch me flail around with that sword, even though we both knew that you were much better with those things that I was. Want to know a secret? You always will be. You’re not always the best at war, but I could never take you in a swordfight.” 

France is turning his head, curling into England like he can burrow into his chest.

“But at the end of it all you gave me your favor, tied a ribbon from your tunic around my wrist and made me a crown with flowers and I said the whole thing was very silly. But I kissed your hand anyway—remember that?”

England feels France nod, feels his small hands dig into the fabric of England’s shirt.

“And I said, proper knights marry princesses. So one day we’ll do just that. And we talked just like you said, that we’d be allies and friends and you said—you said you loved me. I didn’t know how you could even know something like that. Love is too big a thing to be so certain about.”

England doesn’t know when his thoughts floated from the past to the present, but he realizes he still feels that way. France is always so sure about what and how he feels, and England has never been like that. It’s easier to just hide behind animosity, than to admit that anything else is there.

“I’m always certain,” France says, “about love. In Grand-père’s house, I knew that he loved Veneziano and Romano best. And Spain has his brother, and everyone has someone who they love best. I saw it in the portraits, too. And I kept looking—I kept looking for someone who’d love me best.”

“Oh, France,” England sighs. “Lots of people love you. You have to know that, right?”

“Not like that,” France insists. “Not the way I want. You don’t understand, Angleterre, sometimes I get so lonely and I don’t know how to stop it. Even when I could talk to Spain it wasn’t the same. It’s not the same with Belgium, she has her brothers. And in all those pictures, I looked and I looked and I thought, maybe it’s someone I haven’t met yet. But it’s not, is it?”

“You’re going to love a lot of people, France,” England hedges. His cheeks have gone bright red. “It’s not all the same—there’s different ways to care about someone, you know.”

“What about you, then?” France pushes back so that he can look England straight in the eye. “I said what I wanted to, right here. You still remember all of it. So do you—do you love me, Angleterre?”

England coughs and turns his head. “I can’t have this conversation with you, right now. You’re a child. And you’re going to be stuck that way unless I can get you to Queen Titania.”

“I’m not a child,” France insists. “You know that—I’m hundreds of years old! Just, just tell me. Please.”

“I can’t,” England stutters. 

France’s face crumples for a moment, but then he looks up again. His eyes are wide, his expression imploring as he says, “Then let me stay.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let me stay here, like this. We can have another chance. It will be—it will be like it was supposed to be. I won’t do it again, whatever made you hate me. I promise!”

“France, you can’t possibly stay here. The world needs—the world needs the France who’s lived through it all. You can’t stay here, like this.” England would have never thought to find himself defending France—any France—but he knows the truth of his words. 

“Please,” France pleads, small hands against England’s cheeks. 

“No, France. I’m sorry.”

It’s a very long, very quiet train ride back to London. England can tell by France’s expression that he’s frightened by the train, so he puts an arm around France’s shoulders and lets him hold onto his hand. But France doesn’t really speak to him. He does keep looking down at the drawings he’d had done that morning, eyebrows pushed together with thought and frustration.

They take England’s car from London to Epping Forest. England can almost anticipate France’s questions, but the boy doesn’t voice any of them. He stares out the window at England’s lands, sighing wistfully from time to time. The knife that’s lodged itself in England’s stomach twists painfully. 

He hasn’t been to this particular part of the forest in some time, but England knows the route like it’s etched into his skin. He takes France by the hand and guides him through the trees. It’s about nine o’clock when they arrive at the right place.

“Robin,” England calls out, teeth gritted, “I need to speak with you.”

For a moment, all they can hear is the rustling of the wind through the trees. And then: “Oh, dear Albion—I thought you said you _weren’t_ going to join us?”

“I don’t have time for this, Puck,” England says, grip tightening on France’s hand. “I need to speak with the Queen. Immediately.”

“Hm,” the sprite says, considering, “You know she doesn’t like unannounced visitors. You should have seen her the last time King Oberon showed up at her bathing pool—”

“Puck!” England yells, and France flinches next to him. It must be very strange, England thinks, only being able to hear one side of the conversation.

“Oh, calm down, Albion.” There’s a brief glimmer of light, and then Titania appears in all her radiant glory. Her gilded hair is loose for the occasion, her gown shimmering white and gold. 

England ducks his head and gives a short bow. “Your Majesty,” he murmurs. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

Titania looks towards France, tilts her head and smiles. “Yes,” she says slyly. “I can see that.”

England catches something in her expression, and Puck’s. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You did this? On purpose?”

Puck laughs. “Oh, don’t look so offended, Albion. You know what kind of mischief we get into. And as I recall, you used to encourage us to go after this one.”

“Well, I’m not encouraging you now! Fix him!” 

“Angleterre?” France asks, tugging on his hand. “What’s going on?”

England shakes his head. “Fix him,” he says, looking directly at Titania. “You know you can’t leave it like this.”

Titania laughs, warm and open. “You’re always so serious,” she says. “Surely you remember what sort of business I tend to on Midsummer?”

“Her Majesty likes seeing lovers united,” Puck adds smugly. 

“And how on earth was this little stunt supposed to do that?” England demands. Puck and Titania shake their heads, looking at him with pity.

“Come, young one,” Titania murmurs, reaching to take France’s other hand. “Let’s set you right again.”

France, who can feel Titania but not see her, looks to England with panic. England looks at Titania questioningly, but she only inclines her head. There’s no duplicity in her amber eyes, and he finds he has to trust her. He drops France’s hand and pushes him forward.

“Go, France,” England says. “I promise, it’ll be alright.”

France seems to be searching England’s face for something, blue eyes wide and then narrowed, questioning. But then he nods.

“I think you do keep your promises, Angleterre,” he whispers. When Titania pulls him forward, he follows her into a bright circle of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Château de Fontainebleau](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palace_of_Fontainebleau) is about 60 kilometers outside Paris. There are records of there being a fortified castle there in the 1110s. Coincidentally--and inconveniently for me!--many of the famous structures of Paris were originally constructed later on in the 12th century. Notre-Dame, for instance, was originally constructed just after the timeline that France is from. 
> 
> (France walked to Fontainebleau, by the way. He's much more used to walking long distances, and was thoroughly motivated to do so. And he also has magical nation speedwalking skills, maybe.)
> 
> The [Epping Forest](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epping_Forest) is a large forest set between Greater London and Essex. 
> 
> And these versions Titania and Puck are borrowed from Shakespeare. 
> 
> Just one more part to go! Thanks for sticking with me thus far.


	5. Chapter 5

England is back to sitting at his desk, although he’s not even pretending to deal with paperwork. Instead he watches the hours tick by slowly on the grandfather clock across the room. Last night—this morning?—he’d received the call from the French government at four am. It’s now closing in on three, which means the day of the spell is almost at an end.

His eyelids feel heavy, but sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. England props his elbow up on the table and lays his chin against his hand, gnawing on his lower lip as he thinks through the events of the day. He trusts Titania and Puck implicitly. Not because they are particularly trustworthy, but because he has known them as long as he has existed, and they know better than to permanently damage the balance of the world by leaving France as a child.

And yet, when England thinks of that child, he feels a pang of regret. France, in their youth, had been overbearing, arrogant, saccharinely affectionate, condescending, and simply irritating. He hadn’t grown out of any of those qualities, except that his affection had become bitter and patronizing as time went on. And England preferred it that way, because he at least knew that he and France were equally matched in their hatred of one another. 

Now, he thinks of a bouquet of roses and a letter tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, and doesn’t know what to make of anything.

“Honestly, Albion, if you keep scowling like that your face really will be stuck that way.” 

England doesn’t need to look up to know that Puck has appeared in the room. So he yawns, and says, “Is it done?”

“You know, _I_ could stick your face like that, just to teach you a lesson. I’ve done it before, it’s quite popular at parties!” 

“Robin,” England says, “ _is it done_?”

He feels Puck settle on the desk, legs swinging. “Of course it’s done. Her Majesty never makes an oath she won’t keep! And neither do I, though that’s why I tend not to make very many oaths.”

“You’re giving me a headache,” England grouses.

“Lucky for you, that’ll distract you from your heartache!”

Puck is England’s oldest friend, and that is why England doesn’t reach over to strangle him. He does, however, turn away and mutter, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Puck’s heels continue to knock against the desk drawers. “Tsk, tsk, Albion. It’s not smart to lie to a faerie. But first let me tell you that your dear Frenchman is now properly old and mature once more, asleep in that gaudy Parisian apartment as though nothing ever happened at all. Aren’t you glad? You know, you’re lucky Her Majesty didn’t want to keep him. She does love pretty boys.” 

“France isn’t pretty,” England gets out between clenched teeth. His hands are clenched, too, into white-knuckled fists against his knees. 

“Yes,” Puck says airily, “that’s the takeaway, here. Not the fact that he loves you, or that he told you so, both as a child and an adult. Or the fact that you missed what you had with him as a child, and that’s what you were dreaming about when all of this began.”

Now England does turn to look at the faerie, mouth hanging open as he tries to decide which preposterous statement to address first. But all he manages to say is, “S-shut up! You’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

Puck leans back on his hands, shaking his head. “Please stop lying to yourself, Albion. It’s very unbecoming. We raised you better than that!”

“You didn’t raise me at all!” 

The faerie turns to him and grins, eyes glowing an eerie yellow-gold. “That’s right. Because you know, as well as I do, what we fae are. We are a manifestation of the magic of this land. We are part of the land of Albion.”

“Puck,” England says pleadingly, “Please stop.”

But Puck shakes his head, leans forward so that his forehead is almost touching England’s. “We’re a part of you, Albion, whether you like it or not. We act on your whims, and your desires. So if you’re ever going to get past this, at least admit that you wanted to see the little frog, again.”

England swallows convulsively. He doesn’t… he didn’t… he _hates_ France. Every France, from Roman times to the present day. But even as he thinks it, he sees France clinging to his arm, smiling at him, kissing his face and looking eagerly after him. There can be no doubting France’s sincerity, at least as a child. But still…

“I’m scared,” England breathes.

“Well, at least you’re nation enough to admit it,” Puck says consolingly. He pats England on the head, ruffling his hair like he used to when England was a child. But when England looks up again, he’s alone in the room. Puck is gone.

England sits alone in the darkness for a moment longer, but he finally has to admit defeat. Sighing heavily, he carries himself off to bed.

He’s lucky that Paris is a commutable distance away, because he wakes up late the next morning and is almost tardy for the second day of the world meeting. He’d received an email at seven am from one Mademoiselle Axelle, containing a revised schedule and not speaking to why there’d been so many delays the previous day. England has to hand it to Axelle—if anyone’s handled this entire thing right, it’s been her.

Still, there’s a nervous current sparking under his skin as he steps into the meeting room. Like the previous day, the other nations are milling about and waiting for the conference to begin. India waves to England from one side of the room, and Portugal looks at him with a raised brow as England yawns and rubs a hand over his face. This is normal, he tells himself. He can deal with this. He’s the bloody United Kingdom of himself and several other lands, he can damn well get through one meeting—

And there’s France. He’s standing at the head of the room, lips curved into that knowing smile. His hair is tied back with a length of ribbon, and he’s wearing a wine-colored shirt under his suit jacket that makes his complexion look creamy. There’s a leather portfolio held in his hand—the case of his tablet, England realizes.

He’s standing at the center of a semi-circle, Spain and the Italies around him. He looks up from his conversation and catches England’s eye. For a moment, England isn’t sure how to respond, but then France crooks a finger and beckons him over.

England scowls fiercely and marches towards him, chin in the air. 

“Ah, Angleterre,” France says as he steps closer. “I was just telling Espagne here that you were so helpful, yesterday. Or so my assistant tells me. Can you believe I slept through an entire meeting? Preparations must’ve tired me out more than I realized. And a man does need his beauty sleep, non?” 

For a moment England can’t process France’s barrage of words. He looks to Spain, who just shakes his head very subtly. And then it dawns on England—France doesn’t remember. And for whatever reason, Spain and the others are fine keeping it that way.

He grimaces. “Too bad even a day’s sleep couldn’t help you, frog.” Even as he says it, he’s distracted by the line of France’s throat, the way his shirt is unbuttoned at the top to reveal just a glimpse of his skin. Infuriating bastard. 

France looks at him for a moment—and god, what a difference nine hundred years has made to his eyes. They aren’t clear and sky blue any longer, but dark and fathomless. England isn’t sure what that look means.

“Anyway!” he says, throwing back his head and forcing a laugh, “Some of us have actual work to do. If you’ll excuse me.”

He shuffles away to his seat, fairly throwing himself down into his chair. It’s only when he looks up again that he notices the vase of flowers by the window—red and white roses, turned to catch the sun. 

The day passes very slowly, after that. India gives a talk on economic expansion that England’s only half listening to, even though it heavily involves him. Then Vietnam gets up to speak and he doesn’t even know what she says. At lunch break, England avoids France and gobbles down his sandwich in the furthest corner of the room, as far away as he can be from those damn roses.

“You look like you’re about to explode,” America comments blithely.

“You look like I’m about to smack you if you don’t shut up,” England replies around bites of sandwich.

But even America and Canada say that if France doesn’t realize what happened yesterday, maybe that’s for the best. 

“After all,” Canada murmurs. “It’s not like you two need something else to fight about, right?”

England wonders if Canada’s always had that hidden bite to his tone, or if it’s something he’s mustered up for today in particular.

The last session of the day is England’s scheduled timeslot. He gathers up his papers and heads to the front of the room, walking with his head held high as he always does. But when he gets to the podium his mouth goes dry, and he stares down at his notes like they’re in a foreign language.

His eyes scan the room and land, unbidden, on France. The other man is leaning forward in his chair, looking at England expectantly. When he catches his eye, he leans back and smiles. It isn’t a suggestive smile, or a mocking one. No, it’s pure and sincere and _encouraging_. It’s the way France used to look at him when he was hacking away at logs with his sword. 

England’s heart abruptly drops out of his chest, so far away that he can’t even feel it beating. Somehow, he clears his throat and begins to speak. He’s been working on this presentation for weeks, and the words come easily once he’s gotten started. He even manages to get in a jab at Germany, which he always counts as a victory.

He takes his seat again and leans back in his chair. As France gets up to give the closing remarks, England stares at his hands, and wonders.

The others file out of the room quickly. Belgium and Monaco are taking Vietnam, Taiwan, and Mexico sight-seeing; Veneziano leaves with Germany; America throws an arm around Canada’s shoulders and marches him off for a drink, undoubtedly; Spain leaves with his brother and Romano.

“Are you planning on sleeping in my conference hall, Angleterre?” 

England looks up abruptly to find France’s face inches from his own. He squeaks, throws out a hand and scoots back two feet in his chair. His palm smacks into France’s chin, and the other man curses and steps back, affronted. 

“What on earth was that for?” France demands.

“Don’t sneak up on me! Have some decorum, honestly!” England crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at France.

“Oh, don’t start,” France says tiredly. “I was just going to ask you a question, rosbif.”

“So? Ask it.”

“Would you like to come see the tower?” France is looking at him with a veiled expression, no hint of entendre in his words.

“What?”

“Yesterday, when I asked, you said ‘later.’ It is now, I believe, later. So, are you coming?”

“Yesterday…” England bites his tongue. Yesterday, France was a child. And England had said that they’d go see the Eiffel Tower when they had time. 

“Angleterre?”

“Yes,” England says. “Let’s go.”

They’re silent as they walk across Paris’ streets in the dimming light. France walks with a practiced elegance, waving to his citizens and expertly dodging crowded streets. England trails along behind him, hands shoved into his pockets as he tries to organize his thoughts. 

France speaks to the ticket counter once they arrive, and England goes to stand directly under the tower. He’s never much cared for its style or imposing height, and he certainly doesn’t celebrate the revolution it commemorates. But it’s so much a part of France now that England can’t imagine a world without it.

(He can’t imagine a world without France, _this_ France, either.)

France returns with two tickets, but they get around the line and squeeze into the elevator that carries them up into the skyline. England is still pursing his lips and starting at his hands, and France has turned away from him to watch their ascent. 

They step out into the warm Paris air, and France leans again the railing and looks out on his city. England stands there for an awkward moment, and then clears his throat.

“So. You remember.”

France turns to him with a wan smile. “I have not slept more than four hours straight since the Great War,” he confides. “But it was easy to tell the others that, and avoid the questions.”

“And you don’t have questions?” England demands. “For god’s sake, you thought it was the twelfth century! You thought Eleanor was still your queen!”

France leans back on the railing now, shrugging. “I was not wrong. Merely misplaced, in time.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It all seems rather like a dream,” France admits. “I can remember it, but I do not feel as though I lived it, really. And why worry? Then I’d have frown lines, like you.”

England rolls his eyes skyward. “Why do I even try talking to you,” he mutters.

“Oh?” France arches a brow. “Is that what we’re doing? Because honestly, Angleterre, from where I’m standing _I_ have talked, and you’ve said nothing in return.”

He can’t pretend not to know what France is referring to. In that way, Puck had been absolutely right. France has said what he needs to, time and again. And England has withheld his own answers.

He looks down at his feet. “Did you mean it?”

“Please be more specific, Angleterre, I cannot tell you the headache I have—”

“What you said, yesterday! And all those years ago! And in the card! All the things you say, and keep saying. Do you fucking mean them?”

France tilts his head up and smiles at England indulgently. He reaches out and brushes his fingers along England’s brow. “See? Worry lines. You need to stop thinking so much, cher.”

“Stop that,” England says, swatting France’s hand away. “Answer the question.”

France sighs, leaning back further. “I do not know how to convince you of my sincerity. But yes, I mean them. I always have.”

England chokes and steps back. “How? I don’t—how can you always be so sure? We’ve done, we’ve done so many things to each other, France! I’ve thrown you down in the mud and stepped on you just to prove I could! How can you just ignore that?”

The other man blinks at him. And, for a moment, his eyes don’t look so different from his younger self’s—they are open, and sincere, and affectionate. “Oh, Angleterre,” he says. “I ignore nothing. I remember each and every moment that has passed between us. I do not love you in spite of that.”

England sucks in his breath, and waits.

“I love you _because_ of it, our history. It is a part of you, and a part of me, and I do not regret it. _La vie c’est pour s’aimer, et non pour s’ennuyer_.”

England doubles over as laughter bubbles out of him, blurring into sobs. He’s shaking, entirely out of control, but he can’t regain any sense of himself until he feels a warm presence beside him, and strong arms around him.

“I was so sure you hated me,” England confesses, pressing into France’s side and hiding his face. “And it was easier, wasn’t it, for me to hate you. You stupid—you terrible—you absolutely infuriating—” He cuts himself off with laughter and tears.

“You must be much more stressed than I thought,” France says, holding onto him. “You’ve gone quite mad, Angleterre.”

“I hate that you’re so sure!” England says to him. “Always, about all your feelings! In me, they just slosh around and I don’t know what to do with them, until I’ve hit someone or slept it off or gotten drunk.”

“We all know you’re terribly uncivilized, cher. But that’s not an answer.”

“I wanted it to be like it was, before!” England says. “Just, just like it was. When I could come visit, and you’d be happy to see me! And you’d care about the things I told you, and you’d tell me secrets, too. And even when you annoyed me I still thought—I still thought you were beautiful! And now you’re—now your bloody shirt is unbuttoned and you know what you’re doing, don’t you? You know exactly what!”

France smirks. “Peut-être. But you know, you can come visit. Whenever you’d like.”

“It wouldn’t be the same!”

“I know.” France strokes his graceful fingers through England’s hair. “It can’t be, can it? We’re not children, anymore.”

“I still feel like it, sometimes,” England mutters. He thinks of Puck’s smirks, and his own inability to understand himself. It’s deeply frustrating.

“Then embrace it,” France suggests. “Don’t pretend you’re some deskbound government official, always so proper. Be a child. Relax. Let yourself enjoy this long life of yours.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, as England mulls this over. Could it really be so easy? Could he just… let go?

“I’ll tell you a secret,” France says.

England looks up at him and nods.

“Nothing makes me happier than seeing you laugh.” He runs his thumb along England’s cheeks, rubbing away the tear tracks. “It’s very beautiful, even when you’re being wicked instead of kind.”

England swallows, and then, unbidden, he laughs. His mouth stretches to a smile before he can stop it, and then he wraps his arms around France and hides his chuckles in the hollow of the other’s throat.

“How can you say such stupid things so easily,” he wonders.

“I’m thoroughly inspired.”

“But what about—the promise! The one from when we were children! You were so angry, when you realized we hadn’t kept it.” And even though he can’t change that, he can’t stand the thought that he’s broken a promise.

“Oh, you foolish man,” France says, rolling his eyes. Before England can retort, France just shakes his head. “We are more connected now that we have ever been, don’t you think? Our governments cooperate, our people visit one another. It only takes two and a half hours to reach my heart, from yours.”

“So what?” England says, though his ears are turning red.

“So? So, I consider your promise fulfilled. We have been allies for a long time, cher. For us, isn’t that as close as it gets to marriage?”

Neither of them move for a moment, even though they’re positioned awkwardly. Then, England takes a deep breath.

“Yes.”

“What?” France asks.

“You said I hadn’t given you an answer. Well, that’s it. Yes.”

France pulls away, and England can tell he’s fighting back a smile. He can tell, because he can read France better than anyone, when he lets himself. 

“Yes, what?” France says, and it’s teasing and nervous all at once.

“Yes, I love you, you great stupid frog,” England grits out. He grabs for France, one hand against the back of his neck and the other at his shoulder. He presses forward and pulls France close, sealing their lips together with singular intent. 

Even this could grow to be familiar, England thinks distantly. France sets his hands on England’s hips, holding him close as they press their lips together again and again. The city of Paris lights up beneath them as England shifts a leg between France’s and tugs at his hair.

France is the first to break away, smiling brightly. “Does this mean you’ll accept my invitation to dinner?”

England does accept. He makes minimal comments about the virtues of French cuisine, and somehow they find themselves talking for hours. France hails a cab for them when they’re through, and England, overcome with exhaustion, falls asleep with his head against France’s shoulder.

France eases him down until England’s head is resting in his lap. As they drive through Paris, France cards his fingers through England’s hair and looks at the hand-drawn portraits he’s tucked away into the leather case of his tablet.

And when they reach his home, and England wakes grumpy and irritable, it is very much like when they were children. Except—it is also somehow better.

(Someday soon, they will dance together in England’s forests at midsummer, laughing like children. And England will ask France a question that he’s held close to his chest for almost ten centuries. France, who is always sure, will say yes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes as such, though France says: _La vie c’est pour s’aimer, et non pour s’ennuyer_ , meaning "life is for loving, not for worrying."
> 
> And here we are, at the end! Thank you guys so much for reading/commenting/reccing this fic, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, too-- I'm always wary of ending chapter fics, since I want to bring everything to really satisfying resolutions. Let me know how I did?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【授权翻译】Comme des enfants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770909) by [Nora_shangforentropie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nora_shangforentropie/pseuds/Nora_shangforentropie)




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